Lasciviousness
by Take this to Heart
Summary: She should've known that studying with Stiles would get her into trouble.


_a/n: So this was written for a prompt at martinskifanfiction's tumblr: **"Lydia has an intelligence boner - meaning she gets turned on by long words and hard-to-solve math problems. That being said, it is **_**very _distracting when she has to study for the SATs with Stiles."_**_ This practically wrote itself since I'm such a sucker for __UST and Stydia make out scenes! :) I hope everyone likes it!_

* * *

She should've known that studying with Stiles would get her into trouble.

Granted, it wasn't supposed to be just the two of them sitting at his kitchen table; it was supposed to be Scott and Allison too, but Deaton called Scott into work and Allison said she wasn't feeling well and Lydia should have _known _it would be a bad idea to come over here anyways.

Because Stiles is smart.

Much smarter than Lydia has ever really given him credit for before.

And Lydia happens to _like _smart.

"Animadversion," Stiles reads off of his laptop—and she can't help but notice the easy way his lips form the word and the way the muscles in his neck work as he speaks.

She clears her throat. "Uh." She knows what it means, she does, it's just so fucking _hard_ to concentrate when Stiles is listing off big words and solving polynomials and twirling pencils around with his long, restless fingers.

He's been quizzing her on SAT vocabulary words for about ten minutes. And ten minutes of Stiles pronouncing words like _lasciviousness _is apparently equivalent to ten different fantasies starring Stiles sans clothing.

Which, you know, she wasn't exactly prepared for, so his propensity with big words (and how much _more_ absolutely attractive it makes him) completely catches her off guard.

"Lydia?" he prompts. His eyebrows are high on his forehead. She shakes the unbidden thoughts of him wearing nothing but a pair of glasses (Does he even own glasses? God, she hopes so.) out of her traitorous brain.

"Sorry," she mutters, willing her cheeks to stay un-flushed.

"It's fine. _Animadversion_," he repeats, slower this time, and goddammit it's even worse than the last time he said it because this time she can see his tongue curling and flexing in his half-open mouth.

Lydia swallows hard, choking out: "Criticism. Giving someone criticism or…uh, censure."

"Yeah! Good job!" he gives her a brilliant smile, and she hopes to God they're close to taking a break so she can regain some control over her hormones. "Anthropomorphous."

She sucks in a breath. _Jesus Christ_— "Resembling a human being."

"How about…" he takes a moment to scroll down the webpage, and she takes a moment to admire the way he licks his lips. Squeezing her eyes shut, she tries to convince herself that his father—_the Sheriff_— is right down the hall and it would be a horrific idea to push his computer out of the way and drag his lips forward to meet hers. "Ooh—here's a good one. _Imbrue_."

Her eyes snap open; this has to be some sort of joke, but he's watching her with frustratingly sincere eyes. "To be wet—I mean—" _shit, _if that isn't a Freudian Slip, she doesn't know what is, "—to _make _wet…or damp."

"Yep." He sighs and stretches backwards in his chair. The hem of his crew-neck tee shifts up to show a sliver of skin that Lydia tries (and fails) not to ogle. _What _has gotten into her?

"Holy—_God_, I need a break," Stiles is saying, and he pushes away from the table and crosses the kitchen to get a cup from a cabinet.

He fills the glass with water from his fridge and hops up onto the counter with practiced ease. Lydia returns to her abandoned page of practice math questions and tries to concentrate, but her brain feels slow and is too frustratingly preoccupied with Stiles to concentrate.

"Are you hungry?" Stiles asks her suddenly after a minute or two of thick silence.

It takes her a moment to realize that he's talking to her.

"Hungry?" she repeats blankly.

His lips quirk into a grin. "Yeah. You know. _Hungry. _The state of wanting food or nourishment. Do we need to go back and review more vocabulary words?"

She scowls at him. "No."

He laughs. "So, what—do you want to eat something?"

She thinks that maybe food will help get her mind back on the right track, so she shrugs. "Sure. What do you have?"

"Ah…let's see…" he slides off the counter in a surprisingly sensual manner and starts to rummage around in his fridge, which gives Lydia the perfect opportunity to check out his ass.

He _has_ to be trying to kill her.

"We have Tyson Chicken," he calls back, cursing as he accidentally bangs his head on the top of a shelf. His ass is still on display and she's not a _saint_ okay? She can't help but tilt her head for a better view. "We also have stuff to make salad or cereal…hamburgers—" He withdraws from the depths of his fridge, turning around to get her opinion and she lets her gaze linger for a beat too long before she meets his eyes. His cheeks flush lightly; her heart beat ratchets up a notch and she averts her eyes.

"Or, uh…" he fidgets slightly. "Oh—hey, I could make you a mean grilled cheese sandwich if you want me to."

Her hand falters slightly in the middle of writing an equation. She looks back up at him. "You cook?"

"Well. Yeah. I mean—it's just grilled cheese. A monkey could probably make that."

Except Stiles isn't a monkey. He's a boy. A very suddenly, unexpectedly _attractive_ boy, and Lydia isn't sure she can handle watching him cook on top of everything else; not when the mere thought of him cooking grilled cheese brings to mind images of Stiles in no shirt and low-slung sweatpants lazily flipping a sandwich after a particularly gratifying afternoon—

"No," she says, her voice an octave too high. Stiles raises his eyebrows. "No, that's fine. Uh—do you have popcorn?" Popcorn is safe.

There is absolutely no way to make popcorn sexy.

"Coming right up!"

She realizes the moment he goes for the popcorn that there apparently _are _ways to make popcorn sexy and Stiles is undoubtedly going to find _every single possible fucking way _until he slowly tortures her ovaries to death_. _

Because of course (_of course_) the Stilinski's do not keep the popcorn on an easily accessible shelf like normal people. Instead, they keep it in the very back of the very top shelf of the pantry and Stiles has to stand up on his tip toes and elongate his whole body and reach so far back that his shirt comes up again. Lydia can see the lean muscles in his arms and his angular hipbones and the elastic of his boxer-briefs. He angles his body slightly and suddenly she's gaping at a trail of hair disappearing below the waistband of his jeans and the whole spectacle is _much _more pleasing to look at then the math problem she's currently working.

So, yeah. That's already almost too hot for her to handle, but _then_ Stiles decides he has the right to talk about all the different ways that trigonometry might show up on the exam while they're waiting for the popcorn to pop.

He's lounging against the counter, blabbering on and on about _reciprocals _and _functions _and _cotangents _and _theorems _and Lydia almost breaks her pencil in half wishing there was a casual way to inform someone that you would really like to rip their clothes off.

When the popcorn's done and he opens the bag and smells the steam rising off of it, he makes the most obscene, pornographic face she's ever seen in her life, exhaling a groan and letting his head loll back in a shockingly erotic form of food-induced ecstasy.

Lydia covers her eyes with her hands in defeat, letting her pencil clatter to table.

"Hey," Stiles says curiously, like he _hasn't_ been sexing her to death all afternoon. "You okay?"

She can hear the soft noise of his socks on the tile as he pads over to her, and suddenly his hand is touching her back. She jumps slightly, ripping her hands away from her face and turning her head to blink owlishly at him. He gives her a smile and starts to rub her back slowly, but that's not helping _not helping at all_ because she can smell him now. He smells good—like cologne and clean clothes and popcorn. She grits her teeth and clenches her hands in her lap.

"Yeah," she says tightly. "I'm Fine."

"Eat," Stiles tells her, his voice low in her ear. He reaches over her to put the popcorn bag in front of her and the action brings him even closer than he was before; his face is barely three centimeters from hers. She can feel the heat emanating off of him and spreading through her. She's waiting tensely for him to move away again (she doesn't trust herself to move until he's at least four feet away from her) but instead of leaving her to die in peace, he folds his arms over the back of the chair and rests his chin on them, looking over her shoulder at the advanced algebra she's been struggling through for the past half hour. His breath tickles the back of her neck sending horrible, lovely shivers to her lower belly that are so strong they're almost painful and when he gestures to a problem and says, "That one's wrong," she just _cannot_ _take it_ anymore.

A desperate, frustrated noise falls from her mouth as she turns her head to the side, crushing her lips messily to his and fisting a hand in his soft gray shirt.

He grunts in surprise, but his lips are moving against hers sloppily and buttery and rushed and it isn't until a few seconds later when her tongue swipes along his lip that he seems to snap back to reality and he pulls away.

"_Lydia_—"

"Shut up," she cuts him off sharply, pressing her lips to his once again. She turns in her seat, tugging him closer by the fabric of his shirt and is rewarded with a better angle against his mouth and his tongue sliding fleetingly along her lips.

She exhales heavily, and Stiles rears back, eyes wide. He stands up hurriedly, looking completely bewildered and Lydia rises with him, determinedly running her hands down his chest and along the skin of his arms.

"Wha—"

"You better keep kissing me _right now_ Stiles Stilinski, or so help me, I will—"

"But—I…you—"

"Come on, please—_Stiles_…"

She's kind of shocked by the way his name leaves her mouth—ragged and sinful and breathy and completely saturated with unresolved sexual tension—and the moment it registers in Stiles's ears, his eyes blow wide and his cheeks blush pink.

"_Ohmygod_…uhm—what—"

But she's tugging on his hair, her eyes focused completely on his mouth because she has _never_ needed to kiss someone as much as she does now. She tugs again, harder than before, and his eyes roll back slightly before he groans quietly, pressing her back over the edge of his kitchen table and letting his mouth come down on hers.

She shoves her tongue into his mouth immediately, and he meets it stroke for stroke with his own; his hands tight are tight against her hips, burning brands into her skin. Their kisses quickly devolve into sloppy, breathy, open-mouthed movements and even as she's swallowing down a moan, she realizes that she should have known he'd be a fucking menace with his tongue. For some reason, however, she hadn't expected it and the sinful way he's curling it inside her mouth and teasing the edges of her lips is a very welcome surprise.

His hands are big, warm, sliding up her arms, cupping her cheeks, raking down her back to squeeze her thighs (goddammit she should've worn a dress); his hands are absolutely everywhere and suddenly he's bending down and catching the backs of her knees and Lydia isn't really sure how he manages to do it so smoothly, but somehow he lifts her onto the table without causing either of them bodily harm and it's _hot_.

Something clatters to the floor—but she doesn't look to see what it is, because the urge to lick and suck and mark his neck is too strong to ignore now that it's right in front of her face. Her legs open wider and he stumbles in between them as she drags her lips from his mouth down to his jaw down to the smatter of moles and freckles on his neck, liberally laving her tongue along his skin. His head falls back at the contact, his fingers tightening on her even more.

"I'm so—oh—fucking _confused_," he gasps, jerking forwards as her hands find their way up his shirt.

"You're such a tease…" she breathes out angrily, working her way back up to his lips.

He stares down at her wildly, fingers dragging up her sides to tangle in her hair and pull her close for a bruising, brief kiss. "_What_?" he pants when he pulls away again. "I wasn't—mmmph…"

Her fingernails scratch down his back and he groans into her mouth, pulling away _again. _She is seriously going to combust. "I wasn't doing anything," he gasps.

"You were," she almost growls, deciding to attack his neck again since he seems so hell-bent on talking. "You and your stupid mouth," she murmurs against his skin, sucking harshly on the sensitive skin.

He whimpers slightly. "My mouth…?"

"And all the things that came out of it," she seethes, digging her fingernails into his hips. Her lips drag along the length of his neck, mouthing at his chin. "All the _math_ and the big words…"

"You like that?" he breathes out shakily, his hands gripping the sides of the table like he might collapse any minute.

"Like it?" she repeats incredulously. She pulls away from him to glare at him, hands sliding up his chest under his shirt. "Stiles, you made me _so_ horny—"

"Shit…" he chokes out; his breath is coming hard and fast, his eyes dark and boring into hers. She shivers and moves forward to kiss him again, but he shakes his head. "Fuck, Lydia, my dad," he hisses. "We can't—he could walk in."

She groans, wrapping her legs around his waist and pulling him close and Stiles's whole face turns adorably magenta.

"S-Sorry," he stutters, glancing down between them at the gloriously noticeable bulge in his pants. "I—_ahhh_…" he trails off, his eyes fluttering closed as she rocks into him. "Holy—_God_—"

She sighs, carding her fingers through his hair and pulling him close again and his hands fumble under her shirt, teasing the bare skin at her hips.

"What about my dad?" he murmurs against her lips.

"What about him?"

"I—I dunno…" He moans softly, detaching his lips from hers and resting his forehead on hers as his hands sidle up the soft skin of her stomach.

"You're—_Stiles_…"

Her stomach lurches as a zing of arousal shoots through her and she can feel her composure slipping away. Stiles grinds into her again, making her gasp as he starts to mouth along her jaw and his hands are still moving slowly up her body, the tips of his thumbs _just_ teasing the underside of her bra. He pulls away from her, breathing harshly into her shoulder and Lydia tightens her legs around him.

He lets out a strangled grunt. "We have to be quiet," he whispers.

"You should have thought of that before you invited me to study with your father home," she murmurs back, squirming as his hands raise goose-bumps on her skin.

"Well, _sorry_, I didn't know studying with you would turn into…_this_."

"In the future let's just assume that if you use big words and do math with me I'm going to want to jump your bones, okay?"

He pulls away from her suddenly, a smirk curling onto his flushed face. "You want to jump my bones?"

She rolls her eyes. "Not the point, Stiles."

His hands have stilled on her ribcage and his fingers are so close to where she wants them, but so far away; she whimpers in impatience and presses a kiss to his collarbone, darting her tongue out to tease his skin as he sucks in a breath.

"That is—that's completely the point…" he trails off, rubbing against her again and she bites down, ripping a groan from his throat.

"Son?" the Sheriff's voice calls from the other room and Stiles and Lydia jump about two feet in the air trying to scramble back into their chairs.

"_Shit—shit—_"

"Answer him!" Lydia hisses, swiping her calculator from the ground and trying not to think about how frustratingly turned on she is. Stiles bangs his elbow on the wall in his haste to get back to his chair.

"Yeah, Dad?" Stiles's voice cracks in the middle of his sentence, and he grimaces, frantically trying to readjust his pants and act like they haven't been groping each other senseless on his dining room table.

The Sheriff walks into the room, takes one look at them and raises his eyebrows.

"Everything…okay in here?" he asks and fuck, he knows. Lydia can tell from his pained expression that he knows exactly what has been happening. She glances at Stiles in a panic, but seeing him only makes her _more _panicked because his cheeks are still unnaturally red, his lips swollen and hair mussed and Lydia doubts that she looks much better.

"Everything's fine—it's totally fine," Stiles answers, a little too loudly. "We've just been studying. You know. SATs, gotta work hard!" He gulps and looks away from his father's steely gaze.

"Uh-huh." He turns to Lydia and she tries to look innocent, but she's pretty sure she probably just looks deranged and sex-crazed. "Right." His father sighs, the kind of long-suffering sigh Lydia thinks comes with being around Stiles too much before he turns around and starts to walk back out of the kitchen.

He pauses before he completely leaves, sticking his head back around the door. "Stiles, do we need to have a talk about this—"

"No!" Stiles yelps, waving his hands in the air haphazardly. "No, Dad, seriously—no. No talks."

His dad snorts, but then withdraws. "We'll talk later," he calls decisively over his shoulder and Stiles face-plants into the table groaning about embarrassment and fathers and _why_.

He raises his head to look pitifully at Lydia and her stomach lurches. "Oh my god, Stiles…" she groans, burying her face in her hands.

"What?"

"You have a hickey."

"I have a—I have a hickey?!" He tries to look at it, which only ends up making him almost lose his balance and fall to floor. "Where? Oh shit—did my dad see it? He saw it didn't he? I hate my life right now."

"He saw it," Lydia confirms softly, peeking through her fingers at the dark bruise forming on the side of his neck. "Sorry about that."

The fact that _Lydia_ is the one who so thoroughly debauched him seems to hit him in the next second and he stops trying to catch sight of the mark on his neck, staring at her instead. "That's—it's fine," he says hoarsely. "It's more than fine."

His gaze falls to her lips and she shifts in her seat. If she stays here another second they're definitely going to end up rutting against each other on the kitchen rug— "I should go," she says abruptly, standing up and gathering an armful of books.

"Probably the best idea," Stiles mutters breathlessly.

She swallows hard and slips her feet into her shoes and she's halfway to the door when Stiles asks: "Can we study together for the ACT?"

She rolls her eyes. "If you want to make out with me, just tell me Stiles."

"I want to make out with you," he blurts, the words spilling out on top of one another as he expels them all in a whoosh of air, and just like always, his unfettered honesty makes her heart pound harder. "Preferably soon," he adds. "Preferably often. Hey—here's a thought. Do you want to go on a date this weekend?"

Lydia tries to ignore the riot that the butterflies in her stomach have decided to throw, focusing instead on his hopeful, vulnerable expression. "Fine," she answers primly.

He rolls his eyes. "Well don't sound _too_ excited about it."

She glares at him, and amends her answer to a throaty, sarcastic exclamation of: "Oh, _Stiles_, I would love to go on a date with you!"

Something crashes in the next room.

"I think your dad heard me say that," Lydia whispers, wincing slightly.

"Great. Now he's definitely going to want to talk to me. I swear to God, Lydia, if I have to sit through a sex talk again because of you…"

She grins impishly. "Have fun tonight, Stiles. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yeah, alright—_oh my God_. Wait—we're—you said yes. Holy—_you said yes_. We're going on a _date_."

He looks up at her with wide, wondering eyes, like it's just hit him and he doesn't quite believe it, and Lydia can't help but take a few steps back over to him and press her lips to his one last time.

He makes a little noise in the back of his throat, his hand finding the nape of her neck and tugging her towards him again when she tries to pull away.

"Stiles—" she murmurs reluctantly, her lips sliding against his. "I have to…leave."

He sighs, but lets her go (though he makes sure to run his fingertips down the length of her arm and send tingles shooting through every nerve in her body) and she takes a few shaky steps away. "I'll see you tomorrow," she says again.

"Text me when you get home," he calls after her faintly.

And yeah.

She wobbles to her car, collapses in the driver's seat, lets a silly smile spread over her face—and decides that this has been one of the most productive study sessions _ever_.


End file.
